 Magbo Helmet for Oro Association Rituals, by Onabanjo of Itu Meko (Yoruba People) (Nigeria) c. 1880-1910 Secrets "All human beings must pass through Knoena Ayanmo, which translates to destiny or fate --" A Yoruba belief "When I take my girl to the swimming party, I set her down among the boys. They tower and bristle, she stands there, smooth..." Sharon Olds, The One Girl at the Boys Party In the years when we were free slaves only to the music of our hearts, I dreamed I carried my daughter home singing down the river transported by a mermaid -- and O how her scales did shine! The Elders of the tribe had said Never look at the Oro because you are a woman! But I dyed my fabric with indigo the colour of deep-blue water, and ignored the men except for this one thing: which one would be my daughter's father? One of the Elders had warned me that my eyes would be eclipsed, like the sun, if I looked when the moon shadowed daylight and the great bird cried out, rising from the head of a mounted warrior; and because I am a woman I must beware of he who wants to learn (not fight) to write or to be an artist holding the blank page of a beginning. So I considered the accordion player who'd carved an amulet from mother- of-pearl so it looked like ivory. He kept it hidden in a batik bag during the Festival when his instrument sighed with a swishing sound -- a whoosh of air -- making it sound like the voices of the trees when the Oro is coming his magic soft as a secret, like rain falling until the night's broken open by the crash of the bullroarers and I cover up my ears -- but not my eyes like I'm supposed to -- as the preacher speaks in a loud, loud voice so all the men will know he's serious when he talks about sacred instruments and the power of the Oro; who looks splendid, I think in a robe covered with shells his lips red as blood when the river goddess winks at the blacksmith who made the iron nails to fasten all my choices (to be fathers, that is) on a wooden helmet with the river mermaid's face because it's she who knows my community's fate: call it destiny -- a secret -- the golden infant Onabanjo sculpts when I'm the only woman on the Oro's helmet holding my Itu Meto boy. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp's recent book, When Dreams Were Poems, 2020, explores the relationship between art and poetry; and in the case of the Magbo Helmet, the influence of anthropology. The Oro is thought of as a god by the Yoruba People of West Africa, a place where magic is a part of nature. Nails to hold thirteen figures to the Magbo Helmet is unusual, and more contemporary than carving the entire helmet from a single piece of wood, so the woman's voice in the poem is modern, from a time when Yoruba People returned home bringing multi-cultural art elements, freed from enslavement in Brazil. ** A De Ni Alafi Eewu bę loko Longę, Longę fun ara rę eewu ni…(Yoruba proverb). (Translation) There is danger at Longę's farm (Longę is a name of a Yoruba Legend), Longę himself is danger. (Meaning) You should be extremely careful of situations that have a past history of danger. 1 We shall drift on God’s back whose gaze will be steady, whose face will be serene with notions of peace and rituals of balance. Akin will offset any bobbing by carrying a great white bird above his head. The mal de debarquement with never occur because the bird keeps the sea mirror-flat, the direction true. Stand erect with your gifts as you sail across the boundary between two worlds. 2 It is black night but Aabdar tends the moonlight like a prayer and illuminates the crew whose motion is powered by Emenike who pumps the Juju melodeon and sings on the mountain, in the valley, on the land and in the sea; my God is my portion in the land of the living; my God is good for evermore. 3 Aadesh carries the message of harmony in a gold satin satchel. Aadesh was given the remedy of language which he must carry carefully; should he drop one letter it will drift to the sea bed causing the other letters to pile into one another unable to spell anything. 4 Aaeedah carries a hat box in which there may be a hat. All gestures of reconciliation come with risk. Bolade listens to a tambourine only she can hear. Often this is the only way. Abayomi carries the golden child who is all children. Should the guests refuse this child the journey home will be tumultuous, the joy absent, and Amadia will hide the spirit of lightning under his coat, beginning already to plan the next journey, perhaps with different travelers, perhaps with a antidote, perhaps with a cargo of loneliness that will carry them back empty, ready, as always, to be replenished. John L. Stanizzi John L. Stanizzi - author of Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, High Tide – Ebb Tide, Four Bits, Chants, Sundowning, POND, The Tree That Guides Us Home. Besides Ekphrastic Review, John’s poems are in Prairie Schooner, Cortland Review, American Life in Poetry, New York Quarterly, and others. John’s nonfiction has been in Literature and Belief, Stone Coast Review, and many others. He was awarded an Artist Fellowship in Creative Non-Fiction, 2021 from the Connecticut Office of the Arts and Culture. https://www.johnlstanizzi.com ** We Are Ancient we are ancient magic and burning embers mirror images of souls shatter’d in bone kept for the ages, for historians to argue over chewing the fact with opinion after opinion fighting over our opaque messages in gold driven by a circus dissolved into horizons time and the end are needlessly near we are gifts under a tree, shadowed, twisted wearing memories soaked in lime and salt drift down the pathway to our hearts a song from the wild, birds once hanging like lanterns in the trees, like dew we are lava dreams that swarm over the land swiped and reduced to hardened labour always in our hearts, only one wears the crown and when he stands we will all be free Zac Thraves Zac Thraves is a performer, writer and speaker who lives in Kent. His latest book about coming to terms with anxiety and depression is being adapted into a show; the book is available on Amazon. He presents workshops on mindset and emotional balance using pop culture. Poetry has been published by Nitrogen House and Scrittura Magazine; The Ekphrastic Review, and some are on Youtube. You can follow on Twitter - @28thraves or Insta - @28zacthrav ** Who Am I? Several months ago my doctor asked, Do you remember any past lives? No! I said. Now I’m not so sure. Here I am in a dream, surrounded by African villagers. The people all know me, accept me as one of them. I know them, too, from the prisoner, nursing mother, bandoneon player, and dandy, to both the warrior and his horse. We’re the Oro, a cross section of village life, a jury to bring justice to all our people. I nod at the scribe, here to record our meeting. That’s my favorite job. On waking I can’t recall the outcome of the trial, but my conscience is clear – only how do I know about the Oro? Weird dreams are my norm – talking animals and nameless quests – but this is different. A week later, I’m on a museum tour in a strange city. My legs shake when I spy my dream squad posing atop a Magbo helmet. Who’s the large face below the villagers? Me? Any moment I expect to hear the voice of Rod Serling. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia, and graduated from the University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. Thanks to fellow poets, who generously share the hottest poetry news, Alarie visited The Ekphrastic Review a few months after its birth and decided to move in to stay. She is a consultant for prizes, occasional judge, and received one of the first Fantastic Ekphrastic Awards in 2020. Please check out her three poetry collections on the Ekphrastic Bookshelf. ** Mom and I Go Shopping for Masks Before We Learn We Need to Grasp the Concept of Cultural Appropriation And it’s just as well, as we wouldn’t have been able to deal with the guilt on top of everything else, Dad just having croaked and us in the hospital gift shop at the very moment he slipped away. Our cells ring at the same time. We stare at each other. Maybe if we’d waited to take a break, or gone a lot earlier? Or maybe he and his oncologist had a secret pact and maybe that doctor pushed a little more morphine than required, held off till we couldn’t see. Maybe doesn’t really count anymore. We take the elevator to his room on the 5th floor. Just enough time to absorb his vacancy then leave the room when they come to scrape off his corneas. Mom signs all the papers. We make a few calls, don’t know what to do with ourselves next, head to the parking garage. “That new folk art store’s just opened.” Hushed, her husky Tallulah voice, seductive in any occasion. It’s not like our homes aren’t overflowing with handmade objects from lands other than ours, but we drive over to check it out. An African vendor at the counter is showing his wares to the owner, whose mouth twists with disinterest. But Mom and I know. This is not airport art. We sidle over to the seller, smile. “Meet us outside,” our voices low, conspiratorial. He does. He opens the rear of his van. The smell of campfire smoke rushes out, cloaks us, confirms authenticity. These masks have been danced, at night, under stars. Or maybe the wool’s being pulled over our eyes. We don’t ask. Or care. We have always favored the ease of presumption. Besides, distraction is the point, and it’s here in spades. We scribble mom’s address on a piece of paper, point which way to turn first. Fifteen minutes later, her arc of the cul de sac is lined with carvings, face masks, helmet masks, the odd basket. Mom and I shuffle sideways, shoulders pressing, like Chang and Eng, not speaking, pointing to this one, then that. Bobbing and shaking our separate heads. A distant cousin from across town chooses that moment to come pay her respects. Isn’t she a bit early? She surveys the scene — the masks, us, the vendor. Back to the vendor, us, the masks. She can’t quite work out what’s happening so lands on that default sympathy face everyone hates but knows how to give, then mumbles, “He’s in a better place,” a no less despicable offering, shuffles backwards to her car. Mom and I nod, not at the cousin’s purloined propriety nor at her sweeping Uriah Heep exit, but at this mask and that, already putting nails in our walls. Mikki Aronoff Mikki Aronoff’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine, London Reader, SurVision, Rogue Agent Journal, Popshot Quarterly, South Shore Review, The Fortnightly Review, Gentian Journal, Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, and elsewhere. A two-time Pushcart nominee, she is also involved in animal advocacy. ** Power of Oro Oro, do not disclose our most secret task Ride upon your steed, sacred avian perches Over all, sentinel, protector of our people Warriors, bards, infants in arms, those who fill Air with chants and music, celebratory wine Render our past within scrolls, carry all into battle Rejoice in our gods, survival of Oro, most wise Intelligent elder, each purposeful; walk the path Oro shall keep vigil, upon his head, mighty strength Reduce enemies to harmless as we march on Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a poet who loves challenges, from nature to current events, from captive elephants to teen issues of bullying. Ekphrastic writing has become a mainstay. Her poems appear in many journals including Misfit, Open Door, Sledgehammer and The Ekphrastic Review; full length works are available on Amazon. Dickson is a Pushcart prize nominee who participates in many workshops and coordinates 100 thousand poets for change. She shares her home with rescued feral cats, Cam and Claire. ** Emergence Song We come. We come from the great unknown. We come to welcome you into the world. We celebrate your arrival from the dust into fully created by the One-Who-Starts-The-World. We come bringing music of life. All will follow you. We emerge. We merge of out clouds, from a distance you can’t imagine. We greet you. We’ve been watching for you. Once you were nothing, now you are present like the land and stirring waters. All this is yours now. Protect it and love it. We will be watching to see how you do. Nurture the land and the food growing from plants. Do not harm the ones following you. We hope you will spread words of kindness to those still waiting to arrive. We will be watching to see if you do. Here. Here is the great Ibis. Learn how he moves among the land and water, and befriends the cows. Do the same. Learn. We will be watching you. We trust you to do wonderful surprises for a long time. On my head, you will find my thoughts offering ten more treasures. You are in my dreams and now you are real as the Book of Life, one of the many treasures. Be careful when you open and use it, and we will be watching. All this world is in your care. Do what is right and proper. See this other gift. This one is music so you can sing to your mate. The Great Ibis has dipped his beak into creation and provided one. Take care of your mate. We see your mate already slipping into your arms. This is how to learn compassion. Now use music to sing to each other how you love each other. See how gifts multiply and intensify. Look at the treasure chest of stories. Place your story inside and share your stories with those that follow after you. We will watch what you say. Make the stories good ones. Now I am thinking of offering you the gift of hearing each other before responding. I believe this is helpful. And instead of telling you about all the other gifts, maybe I should encourage you to explore the rest of the gifts. We trust you will know how to use them well. But we will be watching, closely, because each gift has both good and bad uses. Some gifts might fall into disrepair if you do not carefully use them. Remember to always love and encourage others, and nothing bad will happen. Take care of the earth, because you arrived out of the earth, and nothing bad will happen to the earth if you take care of it. Welcome all the plants, trees, animals, and sunrises. Take care of them. Welcome them. We will be watching at a distance. When you look into the sky, you will see us watching. Now we are leaving. We are leaving you like a dream leaves when waking. We are leaving, we are leaving, we are leaving, be careful how to use your gifts. We already see you won’t use them correctly. We hope we are wrong. Please prove us wrong. We are leaving. Martin Willitts Jr Martin Willitts Jr, edits the Comstock Review.. His 25 chapbooks include the Turtle Island Quarterly Editor’s Choice Award, The Wire Fence Holding Back the World (Flowstone Press, 2017), plus 21 full-length collections including Blue Light Award The Temporary World. His current book includes Harvest Time (Deerbrook Editions, 2021). ** The Mask of Many Parts I am the maker of Man, in all things there is balance. I can shape a mother’s breast, create the curve of kindness, chisel out the preacher’s mouth, his breath an incantation, fret and mold a musician’s voice to hone notes of sorrow and joy, chip rub whittle trim trace hew stipple skim I can sculp the prisoner’s conscience into something bright, enlightened, model the hands of medicine man so he can heal the ailing, smooth the elder’s angled chin to meld with wit and wisdom, slice gorge rend rip cleave grate hack split I can forge the warrior’s sword, his crown welded tight to helmet, mount the gold on a soldier’s metal arm him with weapons of war, cast the eagle, wings of bronze to mask the edge of the abyss, heat torch singe sear ignite melt engineer. In all things there is balance, I am the maker of Man. Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and has been passionate about poetry since childhood. She generally writes free verse and loves responding to art through ekphrastic poetry. Her poems have appeared in The Poetry Village, Words for the Wild, Poetry on the Lake, Alchemy Spoon, Dreich and Friends and Friendship. She has had poems in two Scottish Writers Centre chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlet A Spark in the Darkness is due to be published by Hedgehog Press next year. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet. ** Ancestors Unravel mythologies fabrications of generations carried over seas and oceans wrapping around limbs, seaweed weaving old wives tales. Cut against coral, freeing ankles: bleeding gashes worth the unravelling into measured strokes and hefty breaths of air, spitting out deceptions. I am not moved by statues by false idols, or prophets calling out doomsday predictions. But by those who seek refuge on shores that hold tired limbs in open palms Eleni Gouliaras Eleni Gouliaras is a Scarborough poet. Her experience living with major depressive disorder shapes her writing. Her poetry touches on mental health, resilience and resistance. Her poem "Capitalism*2mg" was a winner for the 2020 Power of the Poets contest. Her poem "Proceed with Caution" is published on Pamenar Press online magazine. Her poem "Silence" is published on the Scugog Council for the Arts website after winning 2nd place in the Voice of the Arts Literary Contest 2020. Her writing also appears in Feel Ways: A Scarborough Anthology, released in April 2021. Her poem "Pulse" appears in the August 2021 issue of The Quarantine Review. She is busy studying to become a Library Technician, but poetry always finds a way into her life. ** Beasts of No Nation When you told me your father worked in the oil business, I pictured a ruddy guy in grimy denim coveralls and dented white hard hat, Standing next to an oil derrick in Texas -- the kind that often catches fire. Your family’s home movies from the oil company compound in Lagos, Where you grew up -- set me straight. Pin-the-tail on the donkey games I played at childhood parties in White Plains, Couldn’t hold a blindfold to the Yoruba dancers celebrating your thirteenth birthday. Thirty or forty Nigerian women and men rhythmically paraded through your backyard, Soundlessly singing a Fela Kuti song. The men’s white lace-embellished trousers and the women’s elaborate headwraps Were vibrant in silent 16mm Kodachrome. Your pet White Throated monkey, Naija, made a cameo, Leaping silently from painted porch to your younger sister’s bare shoulder. Later than fateful afternoon, your mother couldn’t find the cash She’d stashed in the cookie jar, a ceramic elephant boy outfitted in a sailor suit. By nightfall, the jig was up. Peter, the teenage Yoruba houseboy, was arrested for theft. Later that year, they shipped you off to a Swiss boarding school, Because there was no American high school in the company compound And because you were beginning to like the local ganja too much. You have spent a difficult life trying to sort your place, your roots . . . Living in the darkness of your corporate father’s oily shadow. I guess it’s true if our fathers sinned, and are no more, It is we who have to bear their iniquities. Jude Bradley Jude Bradley’s prose has aired on National Public Radio and has been published in Teaching in the Two-Year College journal, and Momentum magazine. Her poetry has been published by literary journals including Tupelo Press and Thimble. Jude's poem “Argos” was nominated for the 2019 Pushcart Prize. Her poetry and flash fiction re-envision classical literature and art and reflect on urban life in an ever-shrinking, ever-expanding world. She is lifelong writing teacher who loves to sing, dance, and garden. She is the Reverend Al Green’s most devoted fan. ** A Chieftain’s Burden The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, the smithy, the quack, the shaman, the drummer, the trumpeter, the singer, all ride on the horns of a giant ram parading through town on this helmet sat on the head of the chieftain who walks alone guided by the light of the north star and feeling the earth rotate beneath his feet. In the deepening dusk, the helmet takes on an otherworldly glow. The warm community scene so evident by light of day turns to vague, shadowy blurs reminiscent of monsters and devils. The chieftain breathes a sigh of relief, reaching the temple gates for here, he can finally unburden himself unburden himself of the weight of the helmet, the weight of the community the weight of the community that depends on him and transfer this weighty burden to God. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford and an accomplished Bharatanatyam (Indian classical dance form) dancer. Her poems have previously appeared in Glomag, Society of Classical Poets, The Ekphrastic Review, The Epoch Times, Eskimo Pie Literary Journal, The Poet (Christmas, Childhood, and Faith issues), The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, Bamboo Hut, Visual Verse, and Trouvaille Review. She is a regular participant on the open mic show held by Rattle Poetry. Her micro-stories have appeared in The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She is currently working on her first poetry book. Find more on her blog https://www.justrandomwithnk.com/. ** Droppings Assorted castings behind us… still to come and presently developing into a village. In mine there have already been seamstresses, sailors...a tram-driver and characters in fireside tales that skipped professions. Time offers only flash recordings reduced mostly to fiction. Earned livings aren’t lives except to daily comrades; family hold onto words – advice orders, beratings, tall tales. Actions leave scenes behind of comedy, farce and tragedy. Irene Cunningham Irene Cunningham has had many poems in many magazines and anthologies over the decades. Hedgehog Press published a poetry conversation between her and Diana Devlin – SANDMEN: A Space Odyssey. One of her poems was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2019, and she won the Autumn Voices memoir competition. She has recently moved to live in Brighton, and is editing several novels from the back shelves. ** The Warrior’s Heron We dance, dance, dance, dancing ourselves away on a world forever turning, turning, turning, turning to you my partners in life and death, as my golden babe suckles at my breast, saying what a magnificent crowd, our heels, kicking up in celebration, worshipping the passing of our lives, grinning, grimacing, grinding against the grain, swallowing our palm wine in frantic gulps, the warrior’s heron our only judge. Melissa Llanes Brownlee Melissa Llanes Brownlee (she/her), a native Hawaiian writer, living in Japan, has fiction in The Citron Review, Milk Candy Review, (mac)ro(mic), Necessary Fiction, HAD, The Birdseed, Bandit Fiction, Best Small Fictions and elsewhere. Hard Skin, her short story collection, will be coming soon from Juventud Press. She tweets @lumchanmfa and talks story at www.melissallanesbrownlee.com. ** Wear Me High Adorned with gold He wears me high. A metal bird With no hope of flight He wears me high For a god on whom they tread. With no hope of flight Men and women offer music and song For a god on whom they tread. With elongated head Men and women offer music and song Wealth, and a child With elongated head. Men crafted me. Wealth and a child All offerings for prosperity. Men crafted me A body, a beak, a wing All offerings for prosperity For plentiful crops and long life. A body, a beak, a wing With no hope of flight For plentiful crops and long life He wears me high Alison R Reed Alison R Reed has been writing for many years but only recently took up poetry, and even more recently discovered ekphrasis. She has had poems published in local anthologies and in 2020 won the Writers' Bureau poetry competition. She is a long time member of Walsall Writers' Circle. ** Wild Things I struggle to find a foothold in the blackness of this void, hold the gaze of the thirteen pairs of irises that bore into my chest. This is the face of the obsidian judgement that has kept me in my place, my feet aligned to the path that every woman before me has been taught to walk, in my land. Straying is punishable. One day, I dared to flee the confines of this cosmos that told me how I should view the world from the moment I was flushed from the womb, from the moment I was a helpless suckling clutching at my mother’s breast. I became the rogue that ripped through the palm fronds that roped me in. I was brought back to the fold in irons. She floats towards me, grand matriarch, she of the lidless eyes, red pupils blazing with punitive power, while others of my flesh and blood mutely follow, riding the horned carpet of her tresses. I take in my last breath and exhale. At her bidding the ibis will shred my heart and peck out my eyes - those wild things that dared to dream beyond the void, that dared to look askance. Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad is an Indian-Australian artist and poet who serves as a chief editor for Authora Australis. She holds a Masters in English, and is a member of Sydney’s North Shore Poetry Project. Her poems have been published in both print and online literary journals and anthologies including The Ekphrastic Review, Black Bough Poetry, Bracken Magazine, Red Eft Review, and The Eunoia Review. She won the 66th Moon Prize awarded by Writing in a Woman’s Voice Journal, and an Honourable Mention in the Glass Poetry Awards 2020. She lives and works in Sydney on the land of the Ku-ring-gai people of The Eora Nation. ** This Is What I Remember A last gasp of Summer in mid to late Fall. A night so sticky, so hot, my sister and I were barely wearing PJs. Her face was stuck in a pillow. Mama blasting Santana, my sister sleeping through it. I remember Wildcat attacking my toes. Me tucking my feet underneath the sheet, and Wildcat pouncing up all wild-like to bite my hair. I remember wasted laughter in the living room. The hard-driving beat of Jingo. Me pulling the sheet over my head as the African drumbeat drove harder. The conga all power. The chanting tribal. The bed rattling—along with my nerves. I remember the laughter. Stopping. When one of Mama’s friends shrieked, “There’s something at the window!” I remember pulling the sheet below my nose and pressing my ear against the wall. Listening. Listening. And Mama’s boyfriend shushing, “I think it wants in.” The wall was vibrating from the heavy hypnotic percussion, surging through my body like a conjuration. The record skipping to an altered beat. The needle screeching like a cat until somebody picked it up. I remember jumping at the sudden quiet and Mama whispering, her voice an irregular heartbeat, “I don’t like the look in its eyes. I’m going to get the girls.” I remember the door to our bedroom creeping open. A sliver of caution spilling yellow across the floor. Wildcat’s fur turning spikey and jumping off the bed. Mama scooping up my sister. Me standing up all jellyfish for legs. I remember lying on the couch. My sister still asleep on one side. Me, on the other. Mama and her friends were huddled on the floor, speaking in Spanish about calling a priest. Whispers like a prayer, the fear in their voice’s hot breath in my ear. Mama’s boyfriend was shutting all the windows. Another of her friends turned out the lights. The candles on the table kept flickering like angry wind in an airtight room. I remember someone screaming “Chicken,” and Mama silent screaming into the palm of her hand. Me following Mama’s eyes. My sister’s fingers lizard skin, with nails like talons, her nose a beak. I remember shrinking into the couch, cheek pressed hard into a threadbare cushion. A dark shadow of a hand crossing my face. Me holding my breath. Fading to black. I remember my sister shaking me awake. Mama on the phone twisting the yellow curly cord between long fingers and bare nails. Pacing. Pacing. An old bible and sainted candles spread across the kitchen table like a makeshift altar. And Mama asking Daddy to come and get us, please. Because something visited last night. Some. Thing. I remember the sweat on my skin in that sweltering apartment. And me shivering. Karen Crawford Karen Crawford grew up in the vibrant neighborhood of East Harlem in New York City. She currently lives in the City of Angels where she exorcises demons one word at a time. You can find her on twitter: @KarenCrawford_ ** The Truth in Justice Justice in its embodiment: The communal perspective truths producing a foundation. A foundation stood on by those who carry the weight of their fellow people on their conscience. But, is justice true? The essence of it is Truth. The execution—how you live out Truth—is the ethic. Feel the gravity of this reality: Truth is in everyone; we are born from it. And only those who think they know how Truth looks get to decide how Truth is executed. Mary Elizabeth Bruner Mary Elizabeth Bruner is a 2019 Wofford College graduate living in Greenville, SC with her dog, four cats, and nine chickens. ** Breathed the Sky In the early times the animals sang all day long. They gave thanks for their food and took nothing for granted. There was no envy or greed, only yes and no. And when it was silent all rested in gentle peaceful calmness. In those days the kingfisher and the lark didn’t yet have names, but they knew who they were. And the heather, willow, and the maple, encouraged by the sun, made sugar and breathed the sky, and because of this, we can breathe too. Daphne Clifton Daphne Clifton lives in Portland, Oregon, where she writes poetry, plays Renaissance music, and makes art. Her poems have appeared in Alchemy, Bellwether Review, Paper Mountains:2020 Seabeck Haiku Getaway Anthology, The Avocet, and Voices from the Mill Pond. **
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 After Breakfast, by Elin Danielson-Gambogi (Finland) 1890 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrastic! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is After Breakfast, by Elin Danielson-Gambogi. Deadline is October 1, 2021 . You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please.
The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click above to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include ELIN DANIELSON-GAMBOGI WRITING CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, October 1, 2021. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Planet Set, by Joseph Cornell (USA) 1950 To Joseph Cornell Regarding Planet Set, Dedicated To Giuditta Pasta Perfection, you would have us know, is hemispheric sky aglow with heaven's art the eye can frame unveiled in darkness, name by name, amid the orbs that move beheld in paths, unending, thus compelled to be predestined solar set that would its precious gems beget of clarity in nature's glass and man's that would for nature's pass as crystalline in form and tone, the beauty lent we cannot own except as voice exquisite found in which, divine, we hear its sound. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. ** Atlas Titans aren't immortal. When Atlas dies he'll strike the Earth's gong to sound a song of death: skies will tear from pole to melting pole. Futures shrink - spheres within a sphere - to a single blind bead. You'll hear his mallet swing and his final exhalation, his final exclamation: Titans aren't immortal. Paul McDonald Paul McDonald taught at the University of Wolverhampton for twenty five years, where he ran the Creative Writing Programme. He took early retirement in 2019 to write full time. He is the author of over twenty books, which cover fiction, poetry, and scholarship. His creative work has won and been shortlisted for numerous prizes including The Bedford Prize, The Bridport Prize, The John Clare Poetry Prize, the Ottakars/Faber and Faber Poetry Competition, the Sentinel Poetry Prize, the Sentinal Short Story Prize, and Retreat West Flash Fiction Prize, nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and Best of the Net. Paul McDonald Amazon Author Page ** A Small Box of Everything I stand alone Ninety degrees north Earth rotates beneath my feet Every latitude begins with me Each time zone No time All time One pirouette describes twenty-four hours and a trip around the world The polestar identifies me anchors above my head Half the heavens spin around it and around me All time No time I raise a glass full of nothing and one half full of nothing and one half empty Our blue planet in another and our virgin moon Finally crystallised rock Formed by a force unimaginable to me insignificant to the stars All of this the rest of creation distant moons Titania and Oberon unleashed from their realm held in a rough box behind a sheet of melted sand Rob Joynson Rob Joynson has written poetry for 50 years with no intention of publication. For the last few years as a member of poetry groups in Louth, Lincolnshire, and the instigator of several performance poetry events he has decided to expose his poetry to the critical gaze of the wider world. He published his first collection Of Life and Love and Interludes in 2020 and has been published by the The Ekphrastic Review. ** An Uncharted Star* Do you remember a celestial map on a shelf of a laboratory in our high school among the heap of scrap neglected but kept its former glory? Beside of it an assemblage of balls expressed the planets orbiting around the sun, but now on earth each of them falls and they get dumped and packed in a box browned. Though these stars are almost forgotten now I still recall your dream you told to me when we searched an uncharted star somehow in the night sky and I still want to see your comeback as a ballet star on stage and look up your lasting shine from backstage. Toshiji Kawagoe * This Cornell artwork is dedicated to Giuditta Pasta, a nineteenth-century Italian opera singer. Toshiji Kawagoe, Ph.D. is a professor at Future University Hakodate. He lives in Hokkaido, Japan. His poems in classical Chinese have been published in the anthologies of Chinese poetry and his science fiction short stories in S-F Magazine and Anotherealm. His academic works in economics are also published in many books and academic journals. ** Boxed Love You first came into my life in a store on Fourth Avenue where I found a lithograph of you as you had been in life. Captivated, I saw your face rise before me like the dawn and I had to possess you, claim you as mine. You won my affection from beyond the grave and your ghost was safe to pursue, no fear of rejection. I have impossible crushes, death ensuring they are unrequited. I long for what cannot be, to see you, to hear you sing. To listen to your unique voice, the ability you had to sing contralto as easily as you sang soprano and I envy Stendhal who saw you perform. He heard what I will never hear, he breathed the air you breathed out, he seems like a love rival and he is with you in the afterlife. All I can offer you this side of the grave is one of my boxes of discarded artifacts. I dedicate it to you, Giuditta Pasta. Tête Etoilée. Stephen Poole Stephen Poole served for 31 years in the Metropolitan Police in London, England. As a freelance journalist, he has written for a variety of British county and national magazines. Passionate about poetry since boyhood, his poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Poetry on the Lake, LPP Magazine, and two anthologies. ** On Planet Set by Joseph Cornell I don't have much to give, a few worn treasures on a weathered tray plucked from the ash heap of a broken life. Two shells the sea has polished into pearl, a row of glasses ready to hold tears or fine champagne, and two maps of heaven, the swirl of the milky way drawn like a scarf across night’s body, filled with stars that trace the outlines of gods and monsters measuring their way through centuries of sky, I offer you these as gift and invitation, emblem and souvenir of the plain magic that asks nothing more than wonder, the held breath of our most profound attention. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who finds ekphrasis particularly satisfying, as it links her two major passions, art and language. She has had work appear in many print and online journals and anthologies, including The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester and The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, and the latest editions of Verse Virtual and Earth’s Daughters. ** Join Up The Dots Though being one inconsequential dot in our universe of monumental proportion, we have developed technologies of astonishing achievement, and creativity. We have an insatiable palette, for exploration and discovery from our nose of curiosity protruding from psyche and skull yet should we inflict on other planets our predilection for heinous greed with ears tone deaf to alien suffering and eyes wide open only when convenient? For we are the self-proclaimed alpha anilmalia with unbridled capability, to induce pain on the weak yet we are the moral mentors to vulnerable offspring en pursuit of the noble fibre to join up the dots. Despite global warnings from leading indicators, we perch on the precipice of self-destruction - planet and conurbations and nodes from nature of plant, bird and animal endangered species - from egotistical aims far beyond our horizon of decency, of humanity, of honesty, of truth. While we may claim charity for the weak and those insecure in their own fragile skin, we bomb, we maim, we inflict carnage at the very slightest provocation. Shame, yet shame is but perceived weakness. Do we want to export wanton human traits to the fringes of our unbridled universe to life in an existence beyond our capability for peace, kindness and tenets of tolerance? Alun Robert Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical free verse. He has achieved success in poetry competitions across the British Isles and North America. His work has been published by many literary magazines, anthologies and webzines in the UK, Ireland, Belgium, Italy, India, South Africa, Kenya, USA and Canada. Since 2018, he has been part of The Ekphrastic Review community particularly enjoying the fortnightly challenges. He is a member of the Federation of Writers Scotland for whom he was a Featured Writer in 2019. ** Flight Like the light escaping from under the door, I hurried into the Milky Way, a train of starry monks, Wiser than the moon, shining on their own. In search of permanence akin to flying ants Dotting the dark searching for the flames To shed their wings and procreate, Into a world of little known, I stepped. The temple dome beamed gold. The bells chimed and the chanting grew as the pastor spoke. Earthen lamps flickered lighting up a little girl's face, Head down, hands folded, she stood in silent prayers. Looking to find all that had disappeared Beyond the receding horizon, to which she could run As the pink began to grey. Somewhere among the trees or the muddy lanes, Peace must be. Unclear as to bring or let stay, Building existence between now and then. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing the most. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Safe at Last Ah! My celestial hemispheres in a box Three handspans across How much more convenient, Less unimaginably far Than ice caps, islands and stars Carefully plotted on this map, The frightening infinity of it all If not pinned down by me They would fly off their axis My perspective is god like The earth all small to me here. To make it more homely I add a few tchotchkes: A marble, conductor’s baton, shells, goblets That sort of thing Before the hugeness, the great unknowing Escapes! With god like hand I Wrestle them into the box Decant, filter, sieve them of Size, of unknown hugeness You’ll not find the roaring of the sea For these shells Or the swell and cacophony of the orchestra For this baton The revelry for these wine glasses… But this manageable tidy size Fitting on my mantelpiece Boxed in and boxed out To be passed by Without a murmur As if the world were not The ogre I take it to be But tame, caged, docile Safe. Lucie Payne Lucie is a retired librarian who is writing as much as she can. ** Night Sky Voices - a Duplex I protect my cuttings, defend files, memorable charts, for even the most sheltered boxes sound like night skies you found the sound of sheltered boxes quite a night sky when the pavers under your feet signed and stirred mysteriously then the pavers under your feet started to wave, and mystery stirred, saved the charts that work as carbon-copies of her voice how may charts save the carbon-copy work of her voice, and when did I become the bachelor of calm and clouds? When the muse of clouds turned me into a bachelor of calm, I sang to the sky in even waves, my world right in your hands my even sky you sang to, waving the world right with your hands that could never caress me, that forever set my mind surreal that I forever should mind, still I caress the thoughts that set surreals in files, as I cut time, protect memories, and map out superstars. Kate Copeland Kate Copeland started absorbing stories ever since a little lass. Her love for words led her to teaching and translating some silvery languages; her love for art, water & writing led her to poetry...with publications sealed already! You can find her poems @ The Ekphrastic Review, Hedgehog Press, The Poetry Barn x Poetry Distillery, The Spirit Fire Review, First Lit.Review-East, GrandLittleThings & The Metaworker. Kate was born in Rotterdam some 51 ages ago and adores housesitting in the UK, USA and in Spain. ** is that all there is I am traveling the world is also traveling and together we blue latitude and longitude the oceans mapped with interchangeable stars and isn’t that always the way I’ll drink to that magician checking the schedule cape that glitters hat pulled low who is he really and where do the planets go the planets turning the universe expanding and why does it always say end and dead but meantime everything is moving beyond is watching blurring falling behind but where is when and why is it always between the getting on the getting off the port of call unanswered just keep moving crossing riding piling up gone but mostly not stopping it must be the wind or maybe a wave both sides around repeating maybe and maybe not the focus shifting now the other side is turning all transparent only ghosts where am I going wasn’t this supposed to be a journey with a destination yet it’s taking all my time I didn’t even say hello hello I don’t know why and then goodbye will I return again once maybe am I when is it how now about tomorrow here and every step is sideways holding fast the way to never in this blue blue orb I don’t know who is what and how is where is it or not Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig has always enjoyed visiting the worlds created by Joseph Cornell. ** World in Motion My daughter, hysterical, wakes me in the middle of the night to drive her to the hospital. In the private ER waiting room, the father cries as he tells how he had tried to hold her up and call 911 at the same time. Failed. He curses the boyfriend who’d broken up with her by text from the Army, threatens to kill him. The divorced parents talk of their daughter’s manic-depression, maybe she’d be luckier not to live. My yellow hoodie shrouds my face somewhat, protects the back of my neck from hospital cold as stress clenches every muscle. The second hand on the round Pegasus clock ticks audibly 360 degrees, a mechanical pulse measuring interminable moments of anguish as the night creeps by. A van pulls up to the ER drop off. A man hops from the driver’s side, not bothering to shut the door. He runs through the ER doors and returns to the passenger side with a wheelchair. He rushes his laboring wife past me, as a nurse instructs them to take the elevator on the left to the maternity wing. In the security office next to the entrance sits a box labeled “human organs.” Printed on the side are icons for various body parts—one of them eyes. We wait hours for a specialist. My daughter slumps on the berm of the parking lot with her friend. Near the hospital entrance a pair of rabbits frolics on the small lawn. The specialist comes and goes. My daughter and her girlfriend are allowed to say good-bye to their friend. The sculpture in the hospital visitors’ entrance a large granite boulder—perfectly round gray, is designed to roll continuously when the water flows beneath it. As the morning shift arrives, a custodian turns on the water, sets the world in motion. Jeanne Blum Lesinski An author of nonfiction and poetry, Jeanne Blum Lesinski writes for journals, lifestyle and gardening magazines, anthologies, and online sites. When not at her computer, she can often be found on a bicycle path, in a garden, or deep in a book. Recent work has appeared in Non-Binary Review, the Alphanumeric podcast, and F3LL. She is a finalist in The Ekphrastic Review Women Artists contest. ** Night Sky for Giuditta Her voice, high soprano reaches for the night sky, universal sound permeates atmosphere, crystalline notes held; Giuditta’s hand rises into spotlight as moon ascends. His tribute, love from afar, shadowbox altar worthy of her praise; were she with him, hands clasped to her breast. Voice rising in pitch, her shattered crystals shower him with joy, amidst broken glass, face streaming with tears, eyes raised with her to night sky. Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson has seen La Traviata and other operas, but more can appreciate art from which to write poetry. Visual prompts, she finds intriguing and challenging. Nature, animals and water always spark poetry as well; her two rescued feral cats standing by for the first reading. Misfit, Open Door, Sledgehammer and The Ekphrastic Review are among the many journals where Dickson's work can be found, as well as full length works on Amazon. ** Cornell’s Planet Set Tanka singing their Earth song an artist’s scavenged objects on dowling rods two balls create new alignments planets orbiting the sun cyan blue marble the hemisphere’s colours this day he recalls the resonance between the heavens and the individual he locks a shadow box celestial navigation charts stars clinging to it like silver webs on the wind full moon lunar tides Ilona Martonfi Ilona Martonfi is a poet, editor, literary curator, and activist; she is the author of four poetry books, Blue Poppy (Coracle Press, 2009), Black Grass (Broken Rules Press, 2012), The Snow Kimono (Inanna Publications, 2015) and Salt Bride (Inanna Publications, 2019). Forthcoming, The Tempest (Inanna Publications, 2022). Her work has published in seven chapbooks, journals across North America and abroad. Recently, her poem "My Brother's Ashes" was nominated by The Ekphrastic Review for the Best Microfiction Awards Anthology, 2021. She is the curator of Visual Arts Centre and Argo Bookshop Reading Series. She is also the recipient of the Quebec Writers’ Federation 2010 Community Award. ** The Moment the Womb Unravels We all want to run our own Broadway show leave these trappings of time and place the moment the womb unravels its innards. Each body, each person is a wilting-flower vase. We’re all departmentalized into this world. Boxed contents, the volume of which is equal and yet disproportionate, whatever vibrations shape their path; the framework of these people. They are all the same, glass half full, half-empty, They are like a divided ocean pivoting one way and then another moment another way we’re all internationally, globally, commingling, mingling ah, all of creation, creation is singing listen to the hummingbird, the common nightingale listen to the New Guinea singing dog howl listen to the gibbon and the common quail. This world has its very own reggae-roots-musician, a music baton in an otherworldly "conductor's hand" this world is a singing beluga whale the musical notations, connotations of which, we’ll never understand. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is adult learning difficulties support worker, his poetry has been published in many journals, magazines and anthologies, he resides in the UK, from Manchester, Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth two books of poems published by a CTU publishing group, Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Three Haikus Planet Rotating planet. Moving beings all around, circling the sun. Earth Gravity and life, moon circling the planet, earth’s floating forces. Full Circle Coming full circle, air, gravity, and life forms, earth interlocking. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published and The Importance of Being Short, in 2019. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** Voice of an Angel Once I thought love would be enough to fly us away spinning past planets and stars reaching up to them breaking through the atmosphere to grasp that moment and put it in a glass, our own shining orb that would stay forever gleaming and shimmering and singing at my touch with the pure notes of the voice of an angel breaking through the atmosphere, your voice a voice so pure it will never shatter the glass. It’s lustre has faded now but it will stay forever a still shining sphere in my memories and dreams. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** Night Shift at the Observatory A liqueur glass tilted on a balanced shelf upholding celestial heavens cradles the eye of the world as it wavers between north and south six crystal glasses host the opera singer’s top notes trapped in raw quartz. Venus swirls then swigs a shot of medicinal herbs shocks the stagehand into raising the curtain. Perfect number, perfect crystal, infinity held in two wooden balls rolling on a pair of doweling rods. Suzy Aspell Suzy lives and works in Luton, Bedfordshire, UK. Her work has appeared in Sledgehammer Lit, Spelt Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review and Wombwell Rainbow. Suzy wrote and directed two plays for the Civic Centre in Tainan, Taiwan, on British pantomime theme and is currently working towards a poetry pamphlet. ** The Aqua Game Board Our Celestial Hemisphere game board hangs on the wall. It’s a diorama box with two aqua maps of constellations above a shelf with six tulip glasses. We roll the dice of coordinates to see where we land on Northern and Southern sky views, and drop a clear or aqua glass ball into a cup. If we land in the Milky Way, we move a clear sphere into the next cup. If we land on a celestial body, we move a blue sphere. On rainy days, there are two white croquet balls on a railing above the hemispheres; we take them down to push around on the carpet. We direct each snowy ball through chair and table legs with a wooden wand, and carefully replace everything back on the wall when finished. But now this game says, water. Its aqua spheres look like a flooded earth where water seeps from melting snowcaps and tropical storms stream rivers of muck into subway tunnels. I want to jettison this Humpty Dumpty board game which keeps me playing while earth goes overboard. I’ve cracked glass game pieces and drained the magic from the wand. There’s no water to douse wildfires, as all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men are nowhere to be found. Melinda Thomsen Melinda Thomsen’s book full length Armature was just released from Hermit Feathers Press, and Finishing Line Press published her chapbooks Naming Rights and Field Rations. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, New York Quarterly, Poetry East, Tar River Poetry, The Comstock Review, and others. Find her at @ThomsenMelinda  Congratulations to Jennifer Leigh Selig, winner of our ekphrastic flash summer vacation contest. Click on image above to read her story!  Don't miss out on the sauciest contest in ekphrastic history...Adults Only teases you with sixty sex-themed works from art history. Our guest judge is the one and only Alexis Rhone Fancher. Click on image for instructions and to order your inspiration book.  The Little Deer, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1946 Thank you to everyone who entered our How I Spent My Summer Vacation ekphrastic flash fiction contest. We are pleased to announce the winner is Jennifer Leigh Selig with her story, "Resignation Letter." Congratulations, Jennifer! Please share this story on your social media and help spread the word and the work of our amazing writers. ** Resignation Letter Dear Memoir Students, As you know, I took the summer away from our ongoing course in order to finally fully tend to my own writing. I spent two months trampling through the forest of my memory, leaving many a broken branch in my wake. I wrote nine pieces in total, and each one cost me dearly. Hear no hyperbole when I tell you this—each piece felt like a near-death experience. I am writing to offer you my deepest regrets. Now that I fully understand the costs of memoir writing, which I have been so ignorantly extracting from you for years now, I cannot in good faith continue to mete out such punishment. I apologize for dismissing your cries of but this is hard. It is hard, outrageously so. The past is full of too many slings and arrows. It is to be avoided. Therefore, I am pleased to inform you that I am resigning as your writing teacher, effective immediately. In the words of Frida Kahlo, “I hope the leaving is joyful; and I hope never to return.” I set you free, my little dears. Run, run, run—run for your lives. Run away from your past, and run into your future. Run for, run with, run toward your own joy. Stay present, Your Teacher Jennifer Leigh Selig Jennifer Leigh Selig is a lifelong educator with 33 years of classroom experience, teaching in the fields of literature, psychology, creativity studies, and the humanities. She’s also a prolific writer, authoring dozens of newspaper articles, book reviews, journal articles, 3 screenplays, and is either the author, editor, contributor, or publisher of over 40 books, including Deep Creativity: Seven Ways to Spark Your Creative Spirit. To see some of those titles, visit her publishing company, www.mandorlabooks.com.   Magbo Helmet for Oro Association Rituals, by Onabanjo of Itu Meko (Yoruba People) (Nigeria) c. 1880-1910 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrastic! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Magbo Helmet, by Onabanjo of Itu Meko . Deadline is September 17, 2021 . You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules
1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click above to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include Onabanjo of Itu Meko WRITING CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, September 17, 2021. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. |
Challenges
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